Time And Tide
by Kagha
Summary: For the BZPower short story contest.  At the end of the world, it falls to one being to make the ultimate decision - let things turn to dust around him, or challenge the fates themselves and alter the course of destiny?


**Time And Tide**

* * *

><p><strong>Magnus Nui  Present Day**

Several kio south of the Black Spike Mountains, there ran a river wide across and deep down the middle that flowed inland. The waters were scummy but weighed with impetus, crashing noisily into rocky deltas and glimmering with all the iridescence of oil beneath the burning suns. Over the river, in the distance, the mountains made a great dark smear on the horizon. To one side of the riverbanks a vast forest splayed, on the other, the land was fractured, split into sharp vestiges of what once might have been considered foothills, defiantly slicing their sun-scorched earthen claws up to the sky. The ground cradling the river was sifted fine by erosion and painted golden under the suns. Pressed into its yielding surface lay the tracks of animals come to drink: the fine padded prints of dune wolves, to the tiny-clawed tracks of rats, to the wedged footmarks of thick armoured sand stalkers. However, morning this day brought a break from the normal scene of spoors in the ground. No longer were mere animals indexed in the sand, but a set of serrated boot marks leading down to the river.

There was a dark cavern from whence the wanderer came. It bore its way through the landscape in sinuous curls of black stone, burrowing deep underground until its corridors fell into pitch darkness. The being that emerged was limber and erect of stature, draped in tattered rags to conceal his visage. He wore a dark belt round his waist, tied to it an ornate hilt lacking a blade in its crown. He moved with a soft tread. Every step was measured and deliberate, and he seemed to be keenly aware of his surroundings, as though a hot breeze might caress his armour and concurrently inform him of the status of the area as a whole.

On the sand bank, a serpent noticed his presence and prodded its scaly head into the air. Fixing the intruder in one eye, it frantically skittered off, leaving behind a shedding of bony armour in the sand. Somewhere in the distance, a bird began to chirp. A fish broke the surface of the water, and the river stirred to life.

The wanderer knelt down to the rushing water and lowered a decanter into it. He held the filled flask into the air and beheld it intently, until a wisp of steam curled out the throat and hovered in a fist-sized cloud. At once his grimace slackened and the cloud instantly condensed in a stream of distilled water that poured back into the decanter. Satisfied, he took a swig, affixed it to his belt. His humours buzzed of contentment. For a moment, the clearing was peaceful.

Once more, the wanderer leaned down to the river, this time to splash his face. Rather than lukewarm water, his hands met a solid slab that might have been ice had there been any chill. He screwed up his eyes to make sure they were working properly. To his astonishment, the entire river had glaciated; the bends and curls lay trapped in motion as though time had frozen around them. This world may yet be young, he thought, but this was certainly not natural.

An awful scream tore the silence, and the wanderer's head snapped up. Across the river, glimpses of a colourful figure flailed about in the hardened water. There was no dithering in his stance – he bolted upright and forward, the water resounding with every footfall as though it were hard earth. The figure resolved in his vision to be a Matoran, lodged up to its knees in the solid water.

"Help me!"

He came to the Matoran's side, which was gasping and sobbing hysterically. The little one's face was a blank slate of grey, unmolded by the shape of a Kanohi mask.

The wall of trees on the far side of the river became alive with the sound of running. A spiny creature – uncannily close to the wanderer's height and stature – smashed through the foliage, a sharpened bone shaft gripped in its clawed hands.

"Food," the creature hissed as it approached, a guttural sound that drew up from its throat and resembled bones scraping together. It threw its head forward, a spiked helmet melded grotesquely to its skull. A barbed tail skimmed the air behind it. This was a half sapient, half scorpion predator forged from the hardship of life in the desert to outlive even the breaking of the world itself. This was a Vorox.

"Halt where you stand, beast."

The wanderer straightened and took the hilt from his belt. With a flick of his wrist, a lance of flame coursed up from its bladeless crown. The startled creature cowered back a few steps and hunched its monstrous body even tighter.

With an angry snarl, it hefted the bone spear over its shoulder and threw it at the sole being standing between it and its meal. A swipe of his newly formed firesword melted the spear in half and caused it to fall harmlessly onto the bank. Deterred, the Vorox gave a baleful shriek and turned tail, hobbling back into the woods. The wanderer stood there a moment. When he could no longer hear the snapping of branches that trailed the beast's flight, he willed the blade of flame away and hooked the hilt back to his belt. A Kanohi mask glinted on the ground. He nabbed it and fixed it back upon the babbling Matoran's face.

A moment passed and the Matoran continued to sob unintelligibly. Then its eyes flickered and it choked back its tears. A voice, decidedly male, groaned, "Am I... am I dead? Is this Karzahni?"

"You're not dead, and you ought to thank the Spirit for that," the wanderer provided. "If I hadn't shown up, you would've been Vorox bones."

Tentatively, a frown formed on the mask of the Matoran, who began yanking at his legs. They refused to budge, held securely by the solid water. Immediately he began moaning again.

"Shh," the wanderer soothed, kneeling down by his side. "It's going to be all right."

Just then, the surface gave and the torrent revived, slamming into them and pulling them downstream. Ruddy water filled the wanderer's lungs and the screams of the Matoran assaulted his ears in and out of submergence. His vision came and went in streaks of blue-brown. The current might have held him in its grasp for shear moments or long hours – time was impossible to tell in the chaotic bobbing and thrashing – until the hem of his cloak caught on a rock and held fast against the flow. Just then, the Matoran crashed into him and their bodies tangled together. Thrown off course, they veered sideways and washed ashore a sandy bank. Rubbing the oily liquid from his eyes, the wanderer looked around and did not recognise the scenery. The river must have taken them a long ways away.

"I'm dead!" the Matoran shrieked. "I'm dead this time for sure!"

A hard frown settled beneath the wanderer's hood. "Silence," he commanded vehemently. Impulse drew his hand to his waist to ensure the firesword hilt was still here. He clambered to his feet.

The Matoran's wails gradually fell down to whimpers. Tears welled at the corners of his eyes.

"You need to tell me everything you know," the wanderer's voice was now past consolation. An aura of businesslike detachment materialised around him like a shield. "I may not be from around here, but to my knowledge, canals don't cease up like that every day. Why was that Vorox after you in the first place?"

Fright glinted in the Matoran's eyes, and he scuttled backward on his hands, curdled by this callous interrogation. "Who are you anyway?" he yelled. "Were you sent to kill me too?"

"So it was sent then?"

Silence. The Matoran looked away, abashed. "Don't you have any idea what's happening in the world? Haven't you noticed how sometimes it rains though no clouds fill the sky? Or how the trees seem to stride and sway with a life of their own? Or when the winds conspire against the fortifications of the koros?"

"Not in the slightest." His patience was wearing thin. "Enlighten me."

Indignation fueled the gaze of the Matoran. "The Great Beings are at war."

For some reason, this drew the wanderer to sniggering. "And why, then, are they so interested in you?"

The Matoran hesitated at first, but eventually he drew his hand into the air. He held it there, unmoving, for over a minute. Dubiety began to blossom in the wanderer's breast, but suddenly a blinding light like a bursting star erupted from the outstretched palm and caused everything to flicker indistinctly. The wanderer had to shield his eyes from the brilliance. It lasted a moment and it lasted forever, and then it was gone; the Matoran had closed his hand.

"The light..." he murmured. "It's a part of me."

For a while neither of them spoke. Then the timidity in the Matoran's eyes returned and he drew even further away.

"Your name. What did you say it was?"

"Takua," the Matoran murmured. "Why?"

"You're travelling with me from here on. We're going to go see a friend of mine. Do you know the one named Vakama?"

Pallor gripped the mask of the meek figure named Takua, and he shook his head feverishly. "I can't go back there. They'll stick me! They're the reason I'm out here in the first place ..." sobs choked his voice now, "... said I put them all in danger. An' they— they exiled me. I'm not welcome anymore."

The wanderer grunted. "Well you are now."

Takua was not convinced. "Under whose conditions?"

With a swift motion, the wanderer reached up and pulled the hood from his head. The rigid fabric fell easily and bundled around his neck, revealing an unnaturally smooth, rounded mask that glimmered crimson in the sunlight. Slits in the cheeks showcased the grey musculature in his face beneath, and the flexible eye slots of the moulded smart metal shone with fuchsia irises. At the base of his handsome, knight-like visage, the wanderer grinned haughtily.

"Mine."

#

**Matus Magna / One Thousand Years Prior**

The sky was weeping. In the distant layers of the heavens, top-heavy clouds broiled with moisture and emptied pales upon pales of water to batter the streets of the Great City. The horizon was but a receding memory now, the entire sky gripped in the vice of a single, homogeneous grey mass that bore over Metru Nui like a ghost. The streets were vacant because Matoran were afraid to go out in the wild humidity or the fusillade of raindrops angrily pelting the protocrete. Not even those Ko-Matoran used to mists or Ga-Matoran accustomed to rain dared to creep out of their dwellings.

Inside the Coliseum, the situation was no less dull. The Toa Nuva rested in their quarters, each of their normally flagrant personalities worn down into states of apathy with the depressing scene playing outside the window. The only one whose spirits didn't seem to be affected was Kopaka, but that was perhaps due to the fact that the coldness they all felt right now was something he'd long adopted as a lifestyle.

"This is dismal," Onua finally said, nervously tapping a crystal fossil in his hands.

"Your analytical finesse never ceases to astound me, brother," Kopaka shot. He stood at the edge of the room, distancing himself from the rest of the group. "Do tell me, is the colour of the sky still blue? Such trivial facts elude my grasp without your constant relaying of them."

Onua glared at his icy brother, but before he could speak, Pohatu cut him off. "I'd say it's grey right now," the Toa of Stone intervened, ignoring the sarcasm in the voice of the Toa of Ice. "Bordering on black."

In the corner of the room, crunching on a madu fruit, Lewa shook his head. "I don't heartlike the moodfeel of this. Makuta is defeated, so why do sorrowbad darkclouds continue to covershroud us?"

"It's just the weather," Gali stipulated. "It's allowed to rain, you know. Just because the Dark Spirit no longer commands the skies, that doesn't necessarily amount to immediate sunshine and brilliant blue afternoons. The world still has to follow its seasons."

Onua set the fossil down, treating it with care as though he might disturb the stone-encased stasis the rahi inside was experiencing.

"Still, it's hard to celebrate the rejuvenation of the earth when it doesn't give us anything that we could ascribe to such," he said. "After everything we've been through to save this world, the least it can do in return is give us a little sunshine."

Lewa stammered his agreement around a mouthful of fruit, while Kopaka said nothing and Pohatu offered a small "amen." Gali remained silent, and she cautiously glanced to where their Fire brother was sitting. A grim look gripped the Toa's mask, and he stared pensively out the rain-spattered window. The Toa of Air quickly noticed where Gali's gaze had strayed to and he too cast a look at Tahu. "Firespitter, what's your quicktake on the sky getting all emotional on us?"

Tahu looked up, a light returning to his eyes as if he had woken from a daydream. It did not take long for reality to set in and solemnity retook his expression, whereupon he lifted himself from his chair and growled, "Scores of Matoran have died, battles fought and after a history of violence stretching into the youth of the world itself, you five are going to sit around and argue about the weather?"

He glared at every one of them before stamping out of the room.

A soft whistle. "What crawled up his mask?" asked Lewa.

"The hothead has a point," Onua said. Across the room, Kopaka scoffed. "Why am I not surprised to find you agreeing with him, Onua? After all, together the two of you comprise the bulk of the intellect in our little assemblage here, don't you?"

The Toa of Earth rose stiffly to his feet, as if issuing a challenge to his brother. The two locked eyes for a long moment, before Onua exhaled heavily and followed Tahu's suit, storming out of the room. Gali sighed in the corner, not even bothering to get angry at this point.

"Have I ever told you how much of a charmer you are, Kopaka?" Lewa chided, before standing up to leave too. "You must be a hoot at parties."

"I'm with airhead here," Pohatu agreed, hauling himself upright and coming up alongside the Toa of Air. There was no air of animosity about the two Toa, only a conceded disenchantment with their brother. They walked out. The only Toa now remnant in the room were those of Water and Ice, on opposite sides of the chamber, equally silent. The silence was not natural this time, but tense. Diffidently, Kopaka looked over to the Toa of Water. "Gali, you know I didn't mean it like that..."

"Save it," she said before leaving.

#

Toa Tahu paced, and he mused. He would be a liar to claim that the melancholic state of the weather outside was not affecting him as much as it was the other Toa. He would not admit it though, lest he be faced with the same shame he'd lashed them with earlier. But it wasn't just that. There were other things apart from the rain that occupied his mind. Dark images that crept in the fringes of his thoughts and caused him to freeze, stricken by fear. He told himself that he dreaded that the mission would not end, that the Makuta would continue to elude their efforts until the world fell into dissolution and they hunted him until the end of their days. But somewhere inside he knew that wasn't his greatest fear. His greatest fear was that the mission _would _end, that the world would be restored to peace, and there would be nowhere for him to go. No ends to strive for, no duty to exact, and no destiny to fulfil. No purpose. He feared succeeding over the evil that plagued these lands.

He feared Paradise.

In a very frightening and perverse way, Tahu felt keenly certain that without the Makuta to challenge, he was incomplete. And he hated that. It pervaded him with revulsion for himself, guilt that he felt more at ease handling the darkest soul existent than in the company of his brothers. Maybe Kopaka was right. Maybe the flame inside had melted away all traces of reason within him.

He came to a door. One sharp rap on its sturdy frame. He stood there, treading from side to side, twiddling his fingers. Another rap. Seconds after his knock the knob slid sideward and the door came open. Through the gap, he could see naught but darkness, broken by the inconstant light of a fire. He smelled no smoke, and knew this must be the work of a firestone. Orange luminescence cast Vakama's frame in stark relief.

"Turaga. May I come in?"

"Always," Vakama said. He stepped out of the threshold and held the door open wide. Tahu had to kneel down to enter; these halls were not designed for beings the size of Toa. The room inside was cosy, the fire crackling from a welcoming hearth and copper masks and amulets gleaming on the walls. The windows were shuttered to the storm so that he could barely hear the rainfall or the thunderclaps. This truly was a sanctuary in and of itself.

"Please, sit," the Turaga said. As ever, his voice was patient and paternal. It coaxed forth confidence without insisting upon it. "What is troubling you, my son?"

Tahu lowered himself stiffly into one of the seats, revelling at the comfort of the rahi hides. Even so, he could not bring himself to relax fully.

"It's the Makuta," he divulged. His voice was low and embarrassed. "We have not received a threat for nigh a drift now and the elements no longer act against their masters. The Matoran have every reason to rejoice, as do we, the Toa."

"But?"

"But I can't bring myself to feel jubilant. Mata Nui has yet to emerge. I fear for His absence and for the fate of us all if circumstances return to what they were."

Something flickered in the eyes of the Turaga, a brief recall of those trying times on the island above the sky when the Matoran anguished under Makuta's torment.

"There is a blight in my heart that I cannot seem to rid myself of. Heal me, Turaga. Purge my doubt. It is the seedling of the Makuta, surely."

A long sigh escaped the lips of the Turaga. He strode over to the side of the chamber, ran a keratin spoon through a brewing pot of tea. The herbal fragrance perfused the room. Over the hypnotic sound of the spoon clattering against pottery, Vakama spoke softly, "To my regret, Tahu, that is one thing I cannot do. The shadow of doubt lingers in the hearts of all beings, no matter how noble, and it evades even my ability."

He withdrew the spoon from the pot and tapped it on the rim. Pouring two cups of the steaming beverage, he handed one to the Toa. "However, I can tell you this. Your sorrow is not without reason."

A frown creased Tahu's ordinarily handsome features as he sipped the tea. The hot drink soothed some of the anxiety that bubbled within him. "Tell me honest, Turaga. Does the Makuta still live?"

Vakama sat. Oddly, he did not turn to meet to eyes of his protégé. Rather, he peered into the flame. Flickering firelight concealed the paleness that was seeping into his mask.

"The Makuta will always live, Tahu. Mayhap not here, mayhap not now, and lo not a thousand years from now. But it is the resilience of darkness from which he sprung, and through the resilience of darkness through which he will timelessly persist. However, do not fret. It is through your actions and those of your brothers that none will ever have to face his wrath manifest again.

"From this day, the Makuta will no longer be in the stars, or in the waves, or in the beasts or the hideouts. His only resting place," he tapped his heartlight, "is here. And some may say that it is there where he is more dangerous than any elsewhere."

Tahu sniffed. He sipped his tea, confounded by the impossibility of his Turaga. "You speak in riddles, Wise One. If the Makuta no longer reigns, why then is my sorrow justified?"

It was at length that he received no reply. Pink eyes darted through the fire and suspicion curled the Hau brandished upon the Toa's face. "What aren't you telling me, Turaga?"

His question hung in the air. The crackling of the fire became the dominant sound in the room, but its flames were nothing to fill the hollow chill that reflected off these walls. Vakama expelled a deep sigh and his tense posture slackened, indicating that he would forfeit his nagging thoughts to Tahu. He drank before he spoke, groping for the right words to say. "Dume, myself, and the others have been discussing ever since Makuta vanished. We pondered the Great Thoughts, and what we found was ... unpleasant."

"Do share," the Toa of Fire leaned in to his advantage. The discs had turned.

"I fear what I tell you in this chamber, you may wish you never learned."

Choler rose in his voice now. "I am the leader of the Toa Nuva. This world's totality is indebted to our quests. I have a right to know whatever it is that can disturb the likes of one such as you."

Vakama realised that he was defeated at this point. The look on his mask was sullen. He hesitated to meet the warrior's eye, leaning decrepitly on his firestaff and examining the runes scattered about his chamber. "Things are not well in Paradise."

Tahu frowned. "But that is the place of the Great Spirit's slumber. What could be wrong?"

Vakama tapped his firestaff on the ground and faced the fire pit, a tic he had adopted before performing a tale. But there was no vigour in his motions now, stiff and perfunctory they were, and he went through the routine in hopes it would set his nerves at ease. "The Wall of Stars is fraying. Mata Nui is awake, but His spirit no longer runs through this world."

"Where then?" Tahu demanded. "I shall rally the Toa Nuva and we shall go and bring Him back ourselves."

"A place much like this one," was the answer, cryptic as expected. "It is not the place of the Toa to transcend this world. Your strength will too fail if His absence is prolonged."

Tahu muttered under his breath. "Those places Takanuva spoke of, perhaps?"

The Turaga shook his head. "No. The Great Spirit is still within this realm, but not this world. Above the sky, where our island home once was, He is driving a harbinger land to deliver us to the haven we were once promised."

Such words caused Tahu's breath to catch, and the Toa recoiled, before chuckling elatedly. "That's terrific! He's coming back to save us! After the carnage this world has endured, we are finally reaching what we always dreamed of ... why, then, are your humours damped?"

The eyes of all the races under Mata Nui were meant to glow with natural brightness, a feature innately inspired by the hope that the Great Spirit embodied. But there was nothing natural or bright about Vakama's eyes when they met those of Tahu. When the Turaga spoke, it sounded as though his lungs had shrivelled and his vocal conduits had fried, his words seemingly emanating from a thousand mio away and a hundred years in the past.

"For Mata Nui to save us," he intoned, "this world must end."

#

Tahu retired to his quarters with a heavy heartlight and a sour frame of mind. He collapsed onto his bed, rubbing at his eyes and breathing hoarsely. From his disposition, one might assume that he had just run the length of Le-Metru and back again, but it was not physical strain that fatigued him, but something deeper than that. The implications of his discussion with the Turaga rang inside his cranium like kolhii balls in a magnetic dome. After all they had achieved in order to resurrect this world, now it was fated to end – and at the hands of their very own Great Spirit, no less? It was too much to fathom.

"Trust in Him."

Echoes of those words played in his mind, seeding through his thoughts from a place where the very foundations of his psyche arose. They came in the soft, ancient voice of Turaga Vakama, from a time when he and his brothers were first roused on the island of Mata Nui. "Invest your faith in the Great Spirit, and all things will be granted. In time."

In time. Yes. But just how much time was left?

With this notion burdening him, Tahu fell uneasily into slumber. Even in his sleep, his mind was plagued with nightmarish creatures, the embodiments of his fear and his doubt. In his mind's eye, he stood on the peak of a mountain. Behind him was the throat of the torrid Mangai volcano, and before him were the rolling hills of Ko-Wahi. Only these hills were no longer resplendent with dainty tops of snow and ice, but rugged and bare hunks of brown rock that seemed to crawl with insects. Upon further scrutiny, Tahu realised that those were not insects. They were Bohrok.

A steady incantation rose up from the crawling mountains. It was not the usual chant of the Bohrok, nor was it even delivered in their hollow, mechanical voices. Rather, it was the voice of the Makuta, amplified and distributed among a thousand vessels, rising up in a steady vibrato to pierce the skies. It said:

"Your time has come, little Toa."

"My brother will avenge me."

"And you?"

"You shall perish."

Tahu's throes rocked the reality of the dream state, but nothing he did would prevent the Bohrok from enclosing on him. He let out a funnel of fire to ward off the insectlike mechanoids, but after blasting a few of them to burnt piles of skittering metal, his power tapered out and the incendiary potential would no longer respond to him. One by one, the Bohrok piled closer until they were everywhere, swarming, buzzing, swallowing him in an enormous mound, just as hoto bugs devour a cadaver.

"Your time has come—"

"Brother will avenge—"

"Will perish—"

He screamed and shut his eyes. For what felt like eternity, everything went still. Hapless in the confines of his own mind, he was certain he must now be dead. Slowly, experimentally, he removed his hands from in front of his face, awing that there was room for his arms without clattering against a Bohrok shell. One eye pried open. White light seared his retinas, and Tahu recoiled at the intensity of it. Little by little, he opened both eyes fully, allowing them to adjust to the unyielding brilliance. All around him was an amorphous realm of white. It lacked the definition of a ground, a sky, a horizon. He could not tell which way was up and which was down, or if gravity were even working as it should. The vast, shapeless void caused him to cringe.

"Hello, Tahu."

Unlike the serpentine pitch of the Makuta, this was a deep and regal tone, as though it were drawn from the mouth of one of those noble heroes of old that Vakama would often speak about. Tahu turned, his steps clumsy, as he had no visual reference of where to move his feet. Finally orientating himself to face the speaker, he saw what was almost a mirror image standing before him. Only it was not a reflection – it was an entirely separate being, in a refined and casual stance converse to Tahu's own jittery demeanour, a being who only happened to resemble the Toa of Fire in physical build and facial chisel.

This being's armour was the exact same make and model of Tahu's, but shaded brown and awhirl with the mottled patterns of organic sediment. It speckled too. Not like the rhinestone speckles Tahu had seen embedded in some rahi shells, but with an intrinsic shimmer that made it appear as though the strata of this figure's armour housed stardust. A smile rose on the mask of this curious figure. He had noticed Tahu's gawking.

"Who?" the Toa of Fire breathed incredulously.

"Now, Tahu. Have you learned nothing in all your years, the folly of asking needless questions?"

The booming voice came less from the movements of the being's mouth and more from the whiteness all around. Tahu faltered for breath. He stumbled away, in fearful wonder of the majesty embodied before him. "It can't be."

"Search your heart, Tahu. You know it to be true."

"No..." the Toa of Fire was on the verge of hyperventilation. "This isn't real. You're just a figment of my imagination. Nothing more."

A saddened frown settled on the figure's face. He rose up one brown, sparkling arm, and snapped his fingers. The snap echoed as a thunderclap, and beneath their feet, the whiteness dispersed into an aerial view of Metru Nui. The buzz of the streets far below cascaded into their vantage point in the heavens, and frigid winds blew through the high atmosphere. As a Toa of Fire, he was unaffected by the nip of the sharp air. The enormous height still made him dizzy though, despite the invisible floor that separated him and a plummet to certain death.

"Is that not real?" the figure demanded, pointing down to the city. Again his arms opened and the whiteness above them evaporated in an explosion of stars and nebulae, like those Tahu had once seen over Mata Nui but a thousand times more vivid, nursed among fractal clouds of colour and distance. "Are those not real?"

No longer could he support himself. Knees buckling, Tahu collapsed to the floor, perilously close to becoming a whimpering wreck. When he spoke, his voice was low and wistful. "Mata Nui... is that you?"

The figure smiled. "You were created in my image, Tahu. I can't imagine why it would be so hard to recognise your own reflection."

"Forgive me," he pleaded.

Mata Nui dismissively waved His hand. "Grovel not. That is what the Makuta would have you do. To your feet, my son."

Obediently, Tahu scrambled to his feet. He surveyed the vastness around him. Below, Metru Nui seemed a hairbreadth away in comparison to the inconceivable expanse separating him and the cosmic bodies overhead. Both images, above and beneath him, were so incredibly departed from each other that it caused his mind to pain. He focused his gaze back to Mata Nui, a central point he could stare at without having his head invert itself struggling to accommodate the impossible dimensions around him.

"What Vakama said ... is it true?"

The Great Spirit nodded, solemnity weighing down on His regal countenance. "The world you know was never meant to last, Tahu. You must understand this."

"But," his voice became akin to the whine of a petulant child, "we are your people! Everything we have ever strived for in life, we have done so in your name. You can't abandon us! What about the virtues? Unity? Duty? Destiny?"

Tahu's agony was audible. Even the Great Spirit could not conceal His empathy for the yowling Toa, but even still, His stance did not waver. "You have fulfilled your duty well, and all under your mantle have made me proud. Unity is still being worked toward, but on a scale you cannot yet comprehend. As for destiny ... it was never your destiny to live forever."

"Not me, you clod!" Tahu roared. In his anger, he forgot that he was throwing names at the Great Spirit Himself. In this moment, he did not care. "Them! The Matoran! You can't just kill them!"

"It is the way of things," Mata Nui said, like a teacher instructing a youngling the basic tidings of night and day. "It must be."

Hot tears streamed down Tahu's face. His anger swiftly burned out and was replaced with aching defeat. "Then what's the point anyway?" his voice was teetering on losing its coherence. "Why tell me?"

"You were made in my image, Tahu. It is you who are the keeper of this world. Not the Makuta, nor Tren Krom, nor Artakha and Karzahni. You alone must provide your assent before I return this world to the dust it was before even my inception."

Tahu bit back his tears but the sniffles were wracking his body with continual convulsions. He glared at his Great Spirit. "And if I refuse?"

"You will not," Mata Nui said it as though it were a fact. Coming from His mouth, it might as well have been. "It is destiny."

At his side, the Toa of Fire's hands clenched into fists. His eyes had all but dried out, his cheeks damp with only the memory of tears. Slowly, his breathing regulated to what it had been. Choosing his next words carefully, he looked at his feet and regarded the oblivious Matoran, way down below, smaller than grains of sand from where he stood.

"Then this day, I defy destiny."

Mata Nui nodded. If He were surprised, He did not show it. "Very well," He said grimly. "You have chosen your fate, Tahu. Now you must exact it, and pray that you made the right decision."

"Pray?" Tahu echoed, his voice taut. "To who?"

The Great Spirit did not respond. Rather, He took a step back and His body erupted in a cloud of ashes that swirled out of existence. Overhead, the nebulae hurtled back into sparkles in the space of a second and Metru Nui rushed up to meet Tahu like a field of spikes. He did not have time to fret, for the vertigo was too much. When it hit him, it was so great that as soon as things began to spiral out around him, his body shuddered and imploded into a defiant comatose state. Rather than ridding him of consciousness, however, it suddenly woke him, and he found himself standing in a chamber in the sublevels of the Coliseum. It was the dark of night. He knew this because rather than a domed wall and ceiling around him, there was an endless slope of debris that careened out toward the horizon in shattered bits of metal, compiled beams and shredded wood furnishings among other expanses of rubbish. Above him, where an enormous tower ought to soar hundreds of bio heavenward, there was only empty sky, navy blue and shot with glinting white stars. The Coliseum has fallen, he realised.

Then Tahu looked before him at the remains of the room, and understood why it had not fallen apart as had everything else. Not two feet away, there rose a marble pedestal utterly unscathed by all the destruction that was otherwise evident for kio. On its face was a simple golden mask, lacking a visor plate to cover the eyes and flared at the sides with a wing-like motif. It glowed in the night like a wraith. This was the Vahi, Mask of Time.

Somewhere in the back of Tahu's mind, a voice brushed through his thoughts. _Only three masks were ever created that could alter reality, _the voice hummed. _The Ignika, the Thesi, and the Vahi – these hold the keys to warping Unity, Duty, and Destiny themselves. Two of these masks no longer persist within this world. It falls to you, now, to use the Vahi to change destiny: put things to as they were at the birth of time. Only then can you sway the flow of destiny._

"You truly are a Great Spirit," Tahu whispered.

From the wreckage, a motley crew of coloured figures made their way toward him. They were the other Toa Nuva, surrounded by the effervescence of a collective Hau energy field.

"Tahu—"

"The earthquake—"

"Suddenbad—"

"The ground opened up—"

One voice sliced through the cacophony, and it was that of the Toa of Ice. "What in Mata Nui's name are you planning on doing with that thing?" Kopaka snarled, taking a step toward Tahu and the Vahi. "Look around you. Enough ruin has been inflicted as it is. What more do you plan to destroy?"

Unfazed, Tahu reached forward and removed the mask from its pedestal. He donned it and felt its power surge through his veins as it moulded to his face. In the darkness and the clearing smoke, the Mask of Time gleamed with lustrous golden light. He looked at Kopaka and, with naught but earnest in his voice, replied,

"Destiny."

#

**Spherus Magna / One Thousand Years Prior**

At one bio above the ground, the day's provision seemed to be as mundane and ordinary as had it ever been. The patch of ground proportionate to this elevation was a rich beige shade and was odd with the minuscule cracks where adolescent seedlings were first fanning open their leaves. Unnatural metal musculature crossed the scene as a stone rat scurried through, one of the last descendants of its dying race in this here land, kicking up pebbles in its wake. To follow its path went a dry breeze, yanking a breath of dust from the pores of the earth. All became still.

Ten bio aloft and the stone rat was a bumbling black blurb on the sprawling expanse of tanned soil. The wind, initially seeming heedless, coiled fine white dust into wisps and tendrils, and they played on the ground. For moments, the world seemed to be silent, without even a peep from raptors or a scuffle from rodents. Suddenly the ground shook. Now manifest, there was a thrumming of sound that emanated from beneath the earth, omnipresent and growing steadily louder. A bird passed through the sky.

By now, a hundred bio into an aerial view of the earth, a creek was visible. Its water was thin and colourful, glinting like a limb of liquid jewelry under the suns. Its petite surface jittered in intervals, and the ground itself now vibrated as though a herd of kikanalo the size of a metru were marching. Without warning, the earth yawned open like a blossoming flower and spat chunks of debris into the air. Great strips of land peeled outward in the centrifugal cleavage, curling up and splintering as bedrock and then magma unearthed themselves from beneath the soil. Spurts of molten rock now sprayed through the ground in a series of haphazard geysers. Their precipitate filled the air with soot.

A kio into the skyward journey and one would require a spyglass to spot that lone stone rat, tottering on its toes, clinging to a slab of dirt that crumbled and fell inward the blackness to an unknowable fate. Flocks of panicking rahi were insignificant smears moving across the land. What was once the proper of a lake could now be seen, the water rushing ponderously into the rising magma and belching out clouds of unnatural steam. The fringe of a village as flat and shapeless as a fingernail crumbled into the broadening cracks that clenched the world.

Within ten kio, the earth lost definition from this aerial regard, becoming a contour of mountains, canals, and the complete body of the enormous lake; all stained the same blue-brown mix of colour; all devoured by the sundering of the land. A maroon glow now suffused the earth and fire was engulfing where once had been a barren biome. This here was the untimely demise of an ancient landmass, billions of years aged, still too young. Broken within minutes.

The lake was in three parts, each the scale of a fingertip, each progressively becoming less blue. No longer could mountaintops be distinguished from valleys or kio from inches. Here now was a height no wings were ever made to know. Across the unimaginably vast land, even the flank of a shallow sea now visible was turned at a continentally shattering angle and unloaded its reservoir into the chasms that seemed to lead to this earth's very pit. At ground level, the water would be furious, rushing, foaming, and steaming. From one hundred kio, though, the heaving of the brackish ocean side came over as no more than a gradual flush in colour.

One mio into the sky and cloud cover drifted over the increasingly distant continent. These bluffs of moisture were inconstant and stunted, however, strewn into unnatural shapes as titanic tremors ripped through the atmosphere. Gradually, a tremendous shadow crept over the land, slow and brooding, draping the continental terrain in blackness for kio on end. The crust of earth that the inhabitants had once known as Bara Magna was now sheared entirely in half, and fire was spouting from the planet's gouged asthenosphere. Tsunamis of tainted water swept over what parts of the world had not been swallowed in a fiery downfall. From an airborne standpoint, there was still no horizon in sight.

Bordering on ten mio high.

Clouds predominantly covered the atmosphere now. Their patterns were perturbed and shot with ash. A shadow as great as a moon was thrown over the vacated canyon and crater latitudes of the Bara Magnan world's face. The earth buckled inward, a dramatic implosion whose angle was visible even from ninety degrees and thousands of kio, a gorge of devastation that could have housed the continent of Bara Magna twice over. A biped the size of a small planet hunkered on the surface of this world, its movements syruped in time due to its colossal mass. The force of gravity that it exerted was now seen to be the source of the gargantuan fractures that were tearing apart the planet upon which it stood. Orbs of brilliance as bright as stars burned from beacons in its façade.

A pinnacle height and breadth of one hundred mio was reached, and the sphere of the Bara Magnan world was in full view now. The mechanical giant was a toy on its face now, the scale of a superimposed hand. It was paired with another planet-sized vessel. They were engaged in a quarrel, a bout of fisticuffs that seemed comically sluggish as inertia dragged out the clash into a flicker of slow motion. Together, the shadows of the two giants spanned the equator and the footprints where they had stamped left massive craters and cracks that rent straight through to the poles. In their wake, the atmosphere became denser and denser with debris and global chaos. Their movements bore down on the planet's core and compromised its spherical chassis. It was a spectacular scene, no doubt – dwarfing, stagnant, and cosmic all in its own right. But it was about to get a fair deal more intense. Summoned by the gravitational weight added by the presence of these two mechanoids, two satellites – one green moon and one blue one – fell with the timeless bob of stellar bodies toward this central point of havoc. Upon collision, a surge of force erupted so great that it splintered the planet of Bara Magna and sent fissures coursing through either moon as well. A hundred mio above this grisly Melding, a shockwave of dust passed even through space, buffeted the aerial view momentarily.

It was a good thing there was no sound-propagating medium here in the ether, lest be heard a thunderclap a million times magnified.

From a vantage point held safely in the distance, an unfeeling eye hovered in the void, sitting, watching, and it remembered.

#

Tahu stepped out onto parched earth. Before him, the hills were rolling and bristled with lichen. No greater flora grew at this stage, particularly in a world so new. When Mata Nui had performed the Melding and subsequently the Great Restoration, all life in this new land had been eradicated and reincarnated.

Sentimentality might swamp him had he been acquainted with anyone from this prehistoric realm. But the only knowledge he possessed was that relayed to him in visions by the Great Spirit himself – armoured beings, much resembling Toa and Matoran, who struggled through a life that was scarce better than the embrace of oblivion itself, and who pitted their arms against each other in violent gladiator matches. In the back of his mind, Tahu wondered what it must have been like for them. Striving day to day to acquire a meal, travelling under the blistering suns, persevering with all the resilience the Great Beings might ever have intended and then – gone. Just like that.

That fate might as well have been the Matoran's too, had he not intervened. The memory sat, burdensome, in his head. He tried to recall the exact details of when he put on the mask. All that came to mind was a blur of adrenaline and curtailed streaks of light. There was no telling whether his drawing a blank was a result of the time warping that had occurred then, or merely disjointed memory. Either way, it felt like a lifetime ago now, more even.

Vakama came up beside him, not quite a Turaga anymore. He had the youth and limber physique of a Matoran, but his eyes still housed all the wisdom that Tahu had come to respect. Around his nape sprawled the tribal robe of Mata Nui, and in one hand he held a firestaff, the other clutching a cloak. He thrust the cloak to the Toa of Fire.

Tahu regarded the garment. "Why might I need this? The suns hold no peril for me."

The once Turaga spoke. His voice significantly higher of pitch than Tahu was used to, but he listened to his mentor even now in this devolved form. It was almost reminiscent of the time he'd spoken to Mata Nui, the most esteemed entity to ever have existed, awkwardly walking and making utterances in a body so much like Tahu's own that all the Toa's fundamental flaws were now strikingly conspicuous. He knew he would have to get used to Vakama, with his new appearance and his new voice. He would, too, eventually. But not today.

"Mayhap they don't," Vakama was saying, "but I thought you might like to have this cloak. Apart from our bodies, it is now one of the few things existent now that consists of protodermis."

"Nonsense," he dismissed. "You only have to call Onua and Pohatu. Together they can form entire mountains of protodermis."

"No longer. When you used the Mask of Time to seal us in from fate, you severed our bonds to destiny. Even now as the old world fades, we Matoran are losing our intimacy with the elements as we once knew them. You Toa, too, must draw your power from elsewhere – not from the protodermis which once comprised the body of Mata Nui, but from within, and with these new elements as a medium."

A grunt rose to Tahu's throat. He donned the cloak after a passing study, easing the hood around his neck, tying the hilt of his firesword to its belt. It catered to his build as though it had been woven just for him, and absorbed the sunlight into its fabric, flowed with all the fluidity of a mirage. Surveying the hills before him for only a moment longer, he turned on his heel and strode away, making the long journey back to where his people waited. Vakama followed him, listening to the Toa speak even as they walked.

"You speak as though you are well trained in these things, Turaga. What do you know?"

"More than you think. You should know this, Tahu. The Great Spirit visits me. He imparts me with scraps of His primordial intellect."

He chuckled. "I'm sure He does."

By high afternoon, the two beings, either of them continents of vastly departed experience and wisdom, arrived at the scene of their renaissance. It did not appear as glorious as it ought to have, but its sheer scale was astounding to say the least. Scores of metal pods littered the earth, crushing the pioneer sprouts beneath them, ranking in at the hundreds for the first couple of bio before easily spanning into thousands and even millions. The grey spheres each housed a Matoran, who lay dormant inside. Where he had only moments ago gazed on endless mounds of earth and moss roaming to meet the horizon, now he faced the same vista only with the arks of his people. In the distance, the sunlight was playing off the amassed containment units and lit them up like a bed of jewels. Tahu hesitated.

"I'm scared."

At first Vakama did not respond. He did not know how to. Those words sounded so alien coming from the Toa of Fire's mouth. "—Of what?" the once Turaga almost blurted.

"I know what I must do, I'm just ... I'm afraid to do it. You told me once before of a time like this, with these very same pods. If I pass on my energy to awaken the Matoran, what will become of me? The other Toa?" his fingers gently grazed his mask. "Will we become... old?"

"Not if you choose not to," Vakama spoke. "You needn't be concerned, Fiery One. You may have put things back to as they were, but that doesn't mean they must unfold as they have. Take it as a bane or a blessing, take it how you will, but things will never again be as they had become. The world is changed. I feel it in the water. I feel it in the earth. I smell it in the air. Much that once was is lost, for none now live who remember it.

"Now you come to the point where the road furcates. Either you can bend to the current of time, or you can run from it. Remember that you cannot change it as you have before: this is a new era, and there is no longer one mask to rule them all."

"Talk," Tahu grumbled. "Talk, talk, talk."

With purpose, he strode forward to the first pod of a sea innumerable. He placed his hand upon it and prepared to sanctify it with his essence. But before he did he paused, wanting to usher in this rebirth of life with the proper words.

"To new beginnings," he said proudly.

"To the honour of Mata Nui," Vakama boomed.

Tahu stood quietly for a moment. He finalised their blessings by saying, "To us."

Honeysuckle light poured then from his palm and burbled through the conduits of the inert pod, which projected a crackling field that tapped into the pods around it and triggered the same activation process for kio. One by one, lightstones in the glass portholes flickered to life and hydraulics hissed across the land like the susurration of a deep ocean. Hatches sprung open, and Matoran began to climb out of their shells in a mass awakening. With all the swelling pride of a new father, Tahu gazed at the Matoran and smiled.

The other Toa Mata gathered around him. Each shared the warm feeling of contentment in which Tahu now basked. If one looked close enough, one might see even Kopaka's lips ease from being tight – the closest to a smile he was ever going to get. The reverence was broken when Lewa let out an ebullient whoop.

"We did it!" he screeched, bounding forward and flipping over his head. "The Three Virtues, the Codrex, the Makuta... it's finished."

Tahu echoed those words, his voice hollow and longing. "It's finished."

Gali came beside him and set a hand on his shoulder. He tried to avoid the Toa of Water's piercing look, turning to hide the apprehension he was hiding in his mask. "Tahu," she said quietly, "you can't still be thinking..."

"No, sister. He's right."

They turned to see the Toa of Ice, breathing deeply, absently regarding the Matoran who fumbled around in infantine confusion. His eyepiece whirred as he turned to face them. "We've done all we were asked to and more. We saved Mata Nui. We felled the Makuta. We..." he glanced at Tahu, "_you _altered destiny, and spared us all. It's time we stepped back and let the world work itself out for a change. If we're taking a cue from Mata Nui, then leaving is the only option."

The other Toa nodded solemnly, and even Vakama fell into a state of melancholy at the prospect they were suggesting. Tahu was the first one to mobilise, breaking the stillness of the scene and leading them to a set of six sleek canisters. They were long and slender, unlike the diminutive capsules of the Matoran. Set at the base of a hill apart from the rousing population, they stood upright in an orderly manner, nested on a complex technological dais. They were each entirely airtight, save for screens of liquid energy that led inside.

"I don't want to go back into deepslumber," Lewa moaned. His protests were all but ignored.

One by one, the Toa climbed into their canisters, the sheets of green energy phasing easily around them. They settled inside and peered outward, each able to regard Vakama one last time because of the way the pedestals were arranged. The once Turaga bid them farewell.

"You will be missed."

"Wake us," Tahu uttered, "when you need us."

With that, Vakama flung a lever in the dais and each screen of energy hardened into a slate of metal that seamlessly flowed into the rest of each canister as if it had been there all along. Silent vapours permeated inside that eased the Toa into cryogenic sleep; their bodies became moulded into stasis. Vakama flung another lever and levitation discs in the canisters raised them from their pedestals, until they were bobbing in the air. The discs glowed brighter and the canisters climbed heavenward, ascending spirit stars. His eyes followed them until they vanished in the azure mists of the firmament, and they winked out of sight.

#

**Magnus Nui / Present Day**

Seated in a throne of exsidian, a nameless figure sat and contemplated. His lessers knew him as a member of the creator race dubbed the Great Beings. How accurate this moniker was he could not say. He lacked an objective insight into the matter, forced by modesty to deny the implications of this name but revered and even worshiped wherever he might travel. Only in recent times, he did not do much travelling. He did not do much of anything lately. These were times of war. There was no room for recreation.

Presently, he sipped a fine brew and pondered. One hand was poised over a token in a board game, and in his mind's eye he mentally enacted each possible performance to make with that piece. Settling on the optimal scenario, he hefted the token, set it down in its desired position, and sat back warily. His opponent, hidden in shadows – both literally and figuratively – weighed this move and took his own time for deliberation.

The Great Being was troubled. Even now, in what might have been a harmless game, his thoughts spoke of the war effort. Inherent cynicism hampered the faith he had in his allies; superiority denied acknowledgement of any reason or motive behind the inclinations of his foes. And his intuition told him that those six figures that had fallen from the sky recently were anything but good news. If constructing a world had taught him anything, it was that the most overlooked factors could make all the difference in the outcome of a game.

His opponent moved a piece and withdrew from the board, a smug grin plastered on his face. The Great Being regarded the setup with his tactical mind, capable of foreseeing events eons into the future, and moved another token without even a blip of hesitance.

"Checkmate."

Redness flushed through his opponent's countenance and, in a fit of fury, the board was tossed to the side and the pieces clattered to the floor. With this action, a region in the desert several square kio wide dropped by a few feet and quakes shook seemingly random points in the earth continents away. Unsurprised by the rage of his opponent, the Great Being sipped his beverage again, and said, "Temper, temper. Restraint must become a trait, brother, not a hobby. We must not fall into the sinful tantrums of those races we so parented."

"Races? Aberrations would be a more apt term," was the reptilian reply of his brother. "A malignant blight is what they are. Why must they still persist? In their blind proliferation and their ignorance, they even now turn us against one another."

"Then they will pay the price," the Great Being said nonchalantly. "If war is what our blight-loving brothers seek, then there is not a world that can withstand the events that will transpire. These peons they so cherish will know what it is like to see titans clash."

With a wave of his hand, the Great Being summoned the board and pieces back onto the table, and clouds rolled tremulously in the east. "Now," he said. "Shall we play again?"

#

The wanderer slashed aside a thorny branch and climbed through. Reluctant at first, Takua looked down at the smoking limb and decided it was safe. His eyes strayed back to that brazen hilt that the wanderer brandished, whose blade seemed not of bone or metal but of flame that came and went. It both awed and frightened him.

"So what did you say your name was?" the Matoran finally worked up the courage to ask.

"It matters not what my identity is, it's what I'm here for that defines me," was the cryptic response.

"Talk, talk, talk," Takua grumbled, rolling his eyes. "Why is it that I can never get a straight answer from you solitary types? It's always philosophy and deep introspective revelations. No wonder you're looking for Vakama. You're just like him."

"He is a fine exemplar of what to strive be like," said the wanderer.

"Then why'd he kick me out?" Takua retorted, his voice ringing with bitterness. His travelling companion paused. Takua's breath laboured now, and he examined his feet. His voice was small. "They'll hurt me if I come back. They cursed near stoned me to death when they told me to leave ... I tried the other koros but they wouldn't take me in neither. I don't belong nowhere."

When he looked back up, the wanderer was already walking again, blazing away a trail several bio ahead. He scrambled to catch up.

"You belong somewhere. You just haven't found it yet."

Takua snorted. "Yeah? And what do you know? I can tell you're not from these parts. Nice cloak, by the way. Never have I seen a garb stick to its wearer so reliably, like some kind of Ussal. Say, what's it made of?"

The wanderer sighed, ignoring the Matoran's shallow attempt at banter. He kicked aside a skull-sized rock and leapt over a fallen tree. Behind him, Takua struggled to hoist himself up the slick, moss-covered side of the tree and then shook hysterically as he lowered himself down.

"You remind me of someone I used to know," the wanderer was saying. "He never was quite as boisterous as you, but what can you say, time takes a toll."

"Who is this? I might know him," Takua replied.

The wanderer laughed. "I'd imagine you would."

Frowning at this queer response, Takua mused on it for all of two seconds before shrugging it off and overtaking his significantly taller partner to rake aside a wall of creepers. He pointed into the distance. "That there," he said, "is Ta-Koro. The Village of Fire."

"Not quite how I remember it," murmured the wanderer.

At this point Takua was beginning to seriously doubt this being's sanity. Somewhere inside he secretly hoped that he was not setting himself up for anything potentially devastating. _We're headed back to Ta-Koro, _he thought. _I might as stroll up with a will all filled out. Never mind the fact that I have nothing to pass on, and nobody to pass it on to. And that it wouldn't be followed, anyway._

He was busy musing over the ramifications of his death when a cone of sharpened sticks burst through the ground and encased the two of them. In a fit of impulse, he hacked and clawed at the trap but it did not budge. Amidst his throes, the wanderer snatched him by the collar and shoved him aside. He fell hard on his rump, only to witness the tall wanderer drawing out the blade from his belt and that impossibly beautiful arc of fire stirring in the air. With one clean swipe, the trap fell in pieces around them.

Their predators were already upon them. What meagre predators they were though, the size and shape of Takua, with dirt smeared on their masks and pitchforks wielded in their little hands. Even so, the wanderer assumed a defensive stance, his firesword at the ready.

"Takua? Is that you?"

He squinted, trying to discern facial features beneath the heavy layers of mud. "Jaller?"

"You know these fiends?" the wanderer interrupted.

"They're not fiends! They're friendly!" He took in the mud, the pitchforks, the snare. "At least, I think they are."

Jaller's voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "Vakama told you not to come back!"

"I had no choice! I was held against my will!"

The wanderer glared at him, baffled and offended at the fallacies he was spinning. He cringed back and rephrased himself. "Slightly against my will."

"Who are you, beast?"

"My name is Tahu, Toa of Fire, and I am no beast," the wanderer stated. Sensing that there was minimal danger about these dwarfish figures, he extinguished his blade and put away the hilt. "Escort me to your leader."

Immediately the group was a fit of voices.

"A Toa—"

"Vakama spoke about this—"

"Come to save us—"

"Old Turaga tales, nothing more—"

"All right!" Jaller said abruptly. "We've made our decision. We will take you to Ta-Koro." He pointed to Takua. "But he stays."

"No."

Jaller started, as if caught off guard by the violent answer. He turned to whisper to his second-in-command. "He said no." An equally puzzled look clouded the face of that Matoran. Jaller turned back to Tahu. "Fine. He comes along. We'll let Vakama decide what to do with him."

"Very well. Take us there."

As he commanded, so they did lead him and Takua to the Village of Fire. It lay in the shadow of the Vulcanus Mountains, across a river of molten lava. The earth was dry and brittle around them, shimmering onyx black and cracking with drought. Ta-Koro was a hub of medieval architecture, from old-styled gables to castle walls to cathedral towers. They reminded the wanderer of a world long past. Vakama's words resonated in his head: _none now live who remember._

Jaller led them through winding cobblestone streets until they arrived at a simple hut, tucked away at the bottom of a cliff face. Inside, a Matoran, who might have once been a Turaga, gazed pensively into the beard of a flame.

Tahu rapped on the doorway. Startled, Vakama turned. The Toa stepped inside, grinning.

"Well," he said, "I'm back."


End file.
